The Secret of the Sandhills by Arthur Gask

THERE was no doubt about my luck being out that bright summer morning, as I stood, shabby and down-at-heel, outside the General Post Office in Adelaide.

My collar was frayed away at the edges, my poor old blue suit was well worn and shabby, my hat was stained all over, with the band gone, and the burst in one of my boots marked me down clearly as a man who was not by any means in affluent circumstances. Everything about me told of being down and out.